Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(41)

Me: Why do you say that? Is it because I’m from the South? That’s it, isn’t it? Bigot ;)



I am a betting man, and am certain this chide won’t offend her.



Kennedy: Stereotypes come from somewhere, Matthew ;) You better figure out a way to pony up some moonshine when I come check out your Southern digs sometime.

The thought of Kennedy in my house makes me thankful I’m already sitting down.



Me: You want to come to Georgia?





Kennedy: Yep. Scared?



Me: No, but I’m from there. You should make sure your passport’s up-to-date, though ;)



Kennedy: Touché. :)



Yes. I congratulate myself for the patience it took before I delivered that line. I’ve been waiting weeks to serve it to her. For the moment, I’m grateful that she doesn’t seem to be sending weird vibes about my less-than-smooth behavior lately. Still feeling unsettled about her unsavory rail companion, I refocus the conversation.



Me: Are you sure you’re all right with that guy? What if he gets drunker?



Kennedy: Oh, he’ll get drunker, for sure. Then he’ll pass out. Can I tell you something, though, without you saying ‘told you so’?



Me: I’d never say that to you.





Kennedy: We’ll see.





Me: What is it?



Kennedy: It’s a moment like this when I kind of understand CU’s guidelines about traveling in pairs … and girls not traveling alone off campus.

Sitting forward in my seat, my mind races for any possible way I can help her here. But, there aren’t any. I’m on a train heading south, and she’s going northeast. We couldn’t be traveling further apart. In more ways than one.



Me: How strong is your signal? Think we can voice talk for a while?





My phone rings a few seconds later.



“Hey,” I say, trying not to sound out of breath.

“Hey,” she half-whispers. “I’m talking quietly because people are starting to fall asleep.” In the background I can hear the drunken sound of belligerence.

“That him?”

She sighs. “Yes. It’s just annoying more than anything. If he’s still at it by the time we get off the phone, I’m going to talk to the crew.”

I huff through my nose. “No one has said anything yet?”

Her voice is dry. “People are trying to ignore him. I do feel kind of bad for him. He’s clearly got issues. And he went all the way to Arizona for, like, a year-and-a-half to live with his girlfriend, and they stopped doing drugs, and—”

“Wait,” I cut in. “You’ve talked to him?”

“Yeah. Well, he did most of the talking, honestly. I just kind of nodded and offered a sympathetic smile every four seconds, or so. He’s going to write a book about his whole experience. He had a spiritual moment somewhere in New Mexico. I have my doubts that peyote wasn’t involved.”

“Peyote?” I repeat, feeling culturally ill-equipped for this part of the conversation.

“It’s a psychotropic drug. Like mushrooms.”

Okay, mushrooms I’ve heard of.

“Why do people always say they have those kinds of experiences on drugs like that?”

“I don’t know.” She pauses for a moment, and I wish I could be watching her face. Her eyes always show that her brain is working a thousand miles a minute. Deep and thoughtful, even when choosing what she wants for dinner. “Maybe some people need it, I guess. Maybe some people literally can’t get out of their head without the stuff.”

“It’s not about getting out of anywhere, though. It’s about letting Jesus in.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. Eighteen years of pastoral-like training at the hands of my father and his congregations has stitched these pieces of conversation into my brain for times when I’m questioned or am struggling to think on my feet.

“Shit,” I whisper before she can reply. “I didn’t … didn’t mean to sound all door-to-door there.” I lean my head back, certain I’ve blown it with her forever. Whatever it is.

“Matt Wells!” Kennedy shrieks into the phone. “Did you just swear?”

I let out a growl. “Sorry.”

“Oooh,” she teases, “you’re tired. You’re accent is wicked thick right now.”

“Wicked?” I tease back. “So is yours.”

“Shush.”

“You shush.”

“Anyway,” she continues. “I know it’s about letting Jesus in. But not everyone is there, you know? And sometimes you have to go away from home, even if home is your head, in order to figure out what, exactly, it is you’re missing.”

Something in her voice makes me nervous. “You homesick, K. Sawyer?”

“Yeah,” she chuckles, “but the bitch of it is, I don’t even know what my home is.”

I’m silent, because this is where Kennedy and I have a lot more in common than I think either of us fully realize. We both know how we were raised, but neither of us knows if that’s where our hearts feel at home. The part that turns my stomach in knots is that the place she’s examining and clearly moving closer to is the part I’m praying to get away from.